


Five Pieces To the Puzzle

by tori_trevor



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:47:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tori_trevor/pseuds/tori_trevor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Joan's family is purposefully mean. It's just ... Well, werewolves are volatile and most refuse to be around them. Joan hates it, but that's the way people are--cruel to other beings.</p>
<p>And so, no. Her best friend of three years, the lanky idiot who is incredibly rude to a lot of people, is as normal as most. Not really, but it doesn't mean he's a werewolf. Honest. She would know, wouldn't she? They did spend almost all their time together. She'd know, right?</p>
<p>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which She FInds The First Piece

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know anymore.
> 
> I need less sugar and more sleep.
> 
> I'm sorry for any mistakes/butchering of famous works. I'm not that good of a writer.

The first time she noticed it, it was during a discussion about half-breeds and such from the passing older Slytherin students. She had flinched, remembering the talk she had with the Headmaster about her lineage, back before school had started. It wasn't much of a lecture so much as a pep talk, but the words still stuck to her.  
  
But Sherlock had grimaced, his face almost hidden as he ducked behind his book. She had pretended to ignore both parties, instead focusing on her homework. He was always doing something odd thing or another. It was what she had quickly learned, after befriending him during their first year.

 

* * *

  
  
He had stopped her outside the Great Hall, pulling her away from the crowd.  
  
He leans in, whispering into her ear. "I want to go to the Forbidden Forest. Go exploring. Do you want to go along?" Thirteen years old and already wanting to get into trouble big enough to expel him. A part of her feels guilty. It is not because she would be breaking the rules, but because she wants to go, wants to see what all the fuss is about with this forest.  
She shrugs, shifting her books to her other arm. He hasn't stepped back, still in her personal space. She finds she doesn't mind it much either. He isn't a threat, this pasty, lanky boy with the eyes bigger than half his face.  
  
"I don't have anything else to do. Friday?" He nods, his crooked nose brushing her cheek, smiling.  
  
He suddenly bolts and all she can think about is his parting words, whispered almost too low for her to hear. "Later, lioness." Surprised, she tries to find the meaning of the words, even as her friend Carrie chats to her about some game on Saturday.

 

* * *

  
  
"I wish I could give you detention for dragging me to the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night."  
  
"Well, when else could I go?"  
  
"You could try ... never?"  
  
"Not as fun. Besides, weren't you the one who agreed to join me?"  
  
"I should have reported you. I think I shall."  
  
"Why don't you?"  
  
"Not as fun. You could try not going."  
  
"You can't teach an old dog new tricks. Are you coming, Joanie?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Just ... I have to find my shoe, damn it."  
  
"I'll admit, the swamp is new. It wasn't in the map."  
  
"Shut up and help me find my shoe."  
  
"Found it."  
  
"If it was in your hand all this time, I will actually follow through on the threat to report you."  
  
"It wasn't."  
  
"Good."  
  
"It was in my pocket."  
  
"Give it before I kill you." He laughs, grabbing her hand as she hops to put it back on.  
  
"We can go back to the castle now."  
  
"Do you want to skip breakfast and hide in the hospital wing?" She rolls her eyes, expecting as much, and they walk slowly back to the castle, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, her slow hops as she tries not to move her sprained ankle as much.  
  
She thinks she hears him curse under his breath about moons, but it's finally morning and she's both too tired and too bruised to care.

 

* * *

  
  
Carrie is one of her roommates, and she's decent enough at being a friend. Carrie considers herself to be Joan's greatest friend and guide to being one of the best students. And Joan can hear her outside, loud and furious. Sherlock, chatting amiably just seconds before, pales.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES, YOU GIT!"  
"Shh!" scowls Madam Pomfrey, pointing at the two other students in bed. Carrie rushes to her side, glaring at Sherlock.

"What did you do to her?"

"Carrie, he didn't do anything."  
  
"Nothing."

"Well, she didn't break her ankle sleeping."

"It wasn't me!"

"It was your fault!"

"Carrie!"

"I told you he was trouble."

"I can choose my friends, Carrie. And I was in the owlery when I tripped on the stairs. Someone jinxed them to be slippery and I fell. Holmes, he was checking up on his owl when he heard me fall. And he helped me here. So if you're going to yell at my hero of the day, then I suggest you don't."

"You're going to miss the Quidditch match."

"It's bloated. I don't think that's good."

"It's not, Sher. Look, Carrie. I didn't ask to be jinxed. It happened."

"Sure. Well, I'm going to catch up with everyone else. Bye, Joanie." She stalks off, leaving both students to their thoughts.

"Joanie?"

"Oh, shut up."

"And so I think Potter might not be going to Hogsmeade, since he doesn't have a guardian. I heard he spent the last week in the Leaky Cauldron since he was kicked out. And I can prove it."

"All you do is gossip, Sherlock. It doesn't matter if you prove it. Admit it, you just like gossiping."

"It's not gossip if it's true. Well, it might be. But that's not the point."

"All right, I'll bite. What's the point?"

"I think you should stay away from him."

"Is this because of the whole Black thing? Cos I think I recall telling you it was just a rumour and the Daily Prophet's just that, a prophet. And a fake one at that."

"Just, steer clear of him. You heard what happened on the train."

"Yes, and I also heard that the Dementors won't be attacking students unless they're provoked. We didn't run into any yesterday."

"We were lucky."

"You don't believe in luck."

"Whatever. But we'll stay away from Potter, right?"

"You might, but he's in our year and in my house. If I bump into him--"

"Don't."

"Then it will happen. Sherlock, there's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

"You should rest," he stutters, standing up from the bed.

"What? No, I'm not tired."

"We spent the whole night walking around aimlessly. I'm tired."

" _You_ haven't slept in two days. I sleep just fine, thank you."

"Well, I'm going to bed."

"No, you're not. You're avoiding me. I'll just ask Potter if he knows why you hate him so much." He glares at her, before shrugging.

"He won't know," he says, before leaving the too-quiet wing.

 

* * *

  
  
When she wakes up from a nap, there is a box of chocolates on her pillow, which both frightens and thrills her. She likes chocolates and yet, she can't be sure who it's from.  
  
Madam Pomfrey checks up on her an hour later, some traces of ink on her fingers, probably paperwork--stop.

"He was here, waiting for you to wake up. I sent him away, actually. Looks dead on his feet, that boy."

"I told him to go to sleep."

"I offered him a bed, but he said he was fine. He seems nice, even if everyone says otherwise."

"He is, Madam Pomfrey. But sometimes, he's worse than they say. He's quite rude and such."

"Well, he seems nice enough to you, I guess." She smiles, patting her uninjured foot, before leaving to check on the other patients.

 


	2. In Which She Begins To Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 16 (not really because that would be keeping track and make this whole ruddy thing real and it's not). Her friend is not a werewolf.
> 
> Maybe he's got an allergic reaction to wolfsbane. Or he's tired. He did take a nap during lunch.

The second time she had seen that look on his face, it had been as she looked beside him for her books. They, and by they she meant he, had a habit of grabbing her books in their hurry from the Great Hall to their D.A.D.A. class. Switching them, his filled with notes on its margins and bits of parchment sticking out, she had seen it: a look of pure fear, as Snape yelled at them, told them they were studying werewolves, something they shouldn’t be covering just yet.  
  
“Excuse me, Professor, but where’s Professor Lupin?” Someone girl asked, faint in Joan's ears. Her focus was on Sherlock, whose eyes got glazed-over look, and whom had suddenly started breathing shallowly.  
“He’s ill," snarled the professor. " Now …”  She flinched as she thought of a spell, the one for emergencies such as this. His body jolted back into action, eyes searching the room, unaware that Sherlock Holmes had a panic attack. Pay attention, she had hissed, eyes never leaving the parchment, where she was furiously writing down two sets of notes.  
  
When the class had ended, she had ignored the grumbling about their homework. It was only werewolves. She had wanted to ask Sherlock about studying together, but he was still, stupidly, out of sorts.  
  
“Sher, come on. Up.” He ignored her, until she gave a resounding slap on the table with her bundle of books.

 

* * *

 

Potions, they had after lunch, and they had been working closely with wolfsbane. The look returned. When asked who would handle it in the two-person teams, she volunteered, stating he could oversee the way she prepared the potion, grumbling loudly about his botching experiments and being worse than the explosive Seamus. He gives her a small smile, stepping back from the table and frowning exaggeratedly at her.  
  
But he had seemed better, so she didn't tell Madam Pomfrey about his attack, since it wasn't that big a deal. She was just being worrisome, acting no better than a Mother Hen about this. Sherlock scowled as he entered the Gryffindor Common Room.  
  
  
Yes, everything was just fine, she thought, as the prefects told him to go to his House's Common Room.

 

* * *

   
“Joanie! Joanie, help!” He had half-whispered, half-cried out, eyes bright with fear, breaking the quiet serenity of the Hospital Wing as he shoves the doors open, slamming them against the brick walls.  
  
She looked up from her paperwork, slowly and extremely unimpressed.  
  
“You’re not bleeding.”  
  
“N-no, but—”  
  
“And you’re not back from your late night in God-knows-where.”  
  
“B-but—”  
  
“So, why are you—” She flinches as a high-pitched voice sounds from outside the hall.  
  
“Oh, Sherly, love.” He rushes to hide behind her desk, as she stands up and heads for the door, his grey eyes peeking from the ledge.  
  
“Sherly? Where are you, my sweet?” She opens the door, her ghastly perfume hitting her first.  
  
“Oh, Joanie,” she snarls. “How nice to see you. Have you seen my Sherly?”  
  
“Perfumes irritate the patients’ conditions, you know.”  
  
“Is that the stupid excuse you give for not wearing any? Pathetic.”  
  
“Please leave.”  
  
“Found him! Oh, my Sherly-wherly, this hide and seek game was fun, but—” Joan grabs her arm before she takes another step, stepping closer, her stance defensive.  
  
“Out. Now.” Idiot that she was, the girl takes a few seconds, glaring at Joan, before huffing, snatching back her arm, and stomping away.  
  
“Thank you, Joanie.”  
  
“I didn’t do it for you. Perfume is actually bad for patients.” He smiles, watching her return to her desk, as if she was Madam Pomfrey herself.  
  
“At any rate, I apologize for…invading the wing. I just sort of panicked at that point, and all I could think to do was run straight to the one person who could scare anyone away.”  
  
“Cute, Sherlock.”  
  
"Where is Madam P?"  
  
"She was called away. Practice got a little messy."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
He glares at her, voice defensive. "Whatever do you mean, Joanie?"  
  
"Yesterday, you ... I dunno. You were a bit odd." Another point as to why he couldn't be. The full moon was two days ago and he seems perfectly fine. He was even at class yesterday, the day after the full moon. So there. He wasn't sleeping off a night of unrestrained freedom as a four-legged animal. He was at class.  
  
. . . Dead tired and completely non-responsive, but there, so he couldn't have been howling at the full moon or whatever they did. Maybe.  
  
  
"Sleep deprivation does wonders to one's personality, Joanie."  
  
"That's it? Not getting enough sleep?"  
  
"What else would it be?" And before she can say anything else, he holds the door open for the stupid beater who didn't move from the path of the bludger.

 

* * *

 

After helping fill out the rest of the paperwork, including the new ones made by the latest patient, she realises Sherlock is gone and she's still no closer to knowing if he was ... or wasn't ... one of them.


	3. Hogsmeade!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first trip of the year and it'll be the first unsupervised (by her parents, at least) trip to anywhere for Joan.  
> So naturally, she wants to drag Sherlock around.  
> Besides, Saturday is a full moon day. She'll have her answer, finally.
> 
> (Or, Tori mucks up the time line of her story by putting this AFTER Lupin is missing and Sherlock is dead-tired).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely did not remember which went first, Lupin missing or the Hogsmeade trip. Sorry.

There’s a trip down to Hogsmeade on Saturday, and she is excited to go. Sherlock can't see the appeal. Diagon Alley has more variety than the small village. But Joan has her reasons.

"I've never gone to any place without my parents. Except for school. And trust me, they would have fought for that too if it wasn't for the Headmaster." She drums a beat on the stone bench, smiling faintly. Sherlock lowers his gaze deeper into his book, wanting to ignore her.

"Then go. They're scheduling a trip for this weekend, aren't they?"

"Go with us." Sherlock shifts, stretching and rising from the ground.

"I can't." He says, not looking at her.

"Why not?"

"It's ... I have an experiment I need to finish. It's about the bees."

"I can help."

"No! I mean, you wanted to go to Hogsmeade."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You'll be fine without me around to help?"

"Somehow, I'll soldier on."

"Fine." She rises, turning on her heel, and Sherlock sighs, walking in the other direction to his common room.

 

* * *

 

 She ambushes him after dinner, in the owlery, where he's sitting, pondering.

"I will not attend. That does not mean you should enjoy the day any less. Go with one of those vapid girls you're so keen on spending time with."

"One, you're a git. Two, they're not vapid. Three, you're my friend. Four, I know you haven't explored a magical village either."

"I know enough about it. It's the same as any other village, magical or not."

"Well, yeah, but I don't have parents looming over me, leading me around, and you 'd have actual experience in a magical--"

"I've been to Diagon Alley."

"But that's different. Say yes, Sher." She moves toward the owls, wagging her fingers in a wave. "It's just a quick trip to Hogsmeade. We can buy some sweets at the shop or get a butterbeer with that new student, um, what's his name--"

"The one who wants to be an Auror?"

"Yes, him! We can all have a nice little chat about it. You could exchange tips and stuff. Come on!"

"I'm a little busy. As I've said."

"Liar. There's nothing going on with the bees. I checked my notes." He grimaces, before speaking over her.

"And I doubt Mister Auror-in-training is going."

"Everyone's going."

"Not everyone." A miffed huff escapes her lips, her hands curl into fists, and she nods.

"Fine, be a Gloomy Gus."

"Have fun!"

"And you have fun with your little obsession with Harry Potter."

"It's not an obsession," he scowls. "And stop teasing me about it. He's dangerous."

"I'll bring you some fudge."

 

He finds her in the library, looking over books on Muggles.

"Even if I wanted to go, I couldn't." She doesn't acknowledge him directly, but her fingers, tapping the books' spines lightly, twitch.

"Of course not."

"I'd need permission."

"Rubbish."

"You know we do. Not even that git Harry Potter can go without a signed slip.”

“That’s rubbish and you know it, Sher. If you don’t want to go along, it’s fine. Just don’t lie to me about it.”

“I’m not lying!” The loud shush they hear, from the librarian, make them jump slightly. Joan turns, plastering a fake smile on her lips.

“And I’m not leaving right now. This is me, not leaving. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“We're not meeting up later tonight? I though you needed tutoring?”

“Why bother? It’s clear you dislike my company.”  
  
She had a small inkling of what was going on, but she didn’t want to believe it.

She couldn’t.

Oh, god. What would her mother say if Joan told her was friends with a werewolf? She’d be disowned, shipped to America, forced to live with relatives far away. As she walked past the aisles of books, her sole focus was to continue walking and not cry. She didn't want to be disowned, didn't want to be shipped away. She wanted to stay here, with her friends, finish her studies, continue helping out Madam Pomfrey, be friends with Sherlock.

And she still didn't have a bloody clue as to whether he was or wasn't.

Okay. Focus, Joan. Focus. Before we start tearfully packing for America, we need to find proof.

We need proof.

 

* * *

 

 

When The Fat Lady Portait is attacked, all students are sent to sleep in the Great Hall. Sherlock sits, leaning against the hard wall, and refuses to sleep. He pulls out a book and a small torch.

"I was planning on reading tonight, Professor." He's told to sit away from the other students, if he plans on reading the night away, and Joan makes sure to sit near him, even if they're still at odds. Because she worries, and by the small, fleeting, smile he gives his book as she picks the sleeping bag next to his, he worries too.

Carrie tosses and turns next to the left of her, and Sherlock is mumbling under his breath to the right, but she sleeps as peacefully as she could with an escaped convict loose in her school.

Carrie, in the morning, grumbles to her. "Those purple sleeping bags were horrid."

"As opposed to the criminal loose on our grounds, yes."

"I'm serious Joanie. I couldn't sleep in them."

"I know. You tossed around more than a boat during a hurricane."

"Funny, Joanie. And what was with Holmes? He looked like he didn't sleep."

"He didn't. He was up all night."

"He do that a lot?"

"Sometimes. Carrie, we're going to be late."

"Only who else but odd git Holmes would let--"

"Carrie! That's rude!"

"Well, tell me, who else?"

"Professor Snape was grumbling about Neville. His list of passwords was what got Black in, not Sherlock. I'm going to class. See you later, Carrie."

 

And damn it, she never did go looking for proof.


	4. Look to the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can't focus on the not-so-great future, not when the present causes so many problems.

She’d seen him drink vial after vial of putrid liquid, day after day. She had closed her eyes, ignoring the disgusting smell, digging her nose deeper into her book.

"Why won’t you say anything?"

"I’m trying to study, idiot."

"You know what I mean, Watson. Don’t be obtuse, it does not suit you."

"Finish whatever you’re drinking and shut up."

"We’ll discuss this eventually."

"Maybe," she replied, immersed in one book, only looking away to take notes.

 

* * *

 

"Professor Lupin’s a werewolf," he says, not staring at her. She looks down at her lap, where his head is, both of them sharing the bench in the owlery. She sets down her book on the nearby window ledge slowly.

"Okay?"

"You’re not shocked."

"Like Hermione, I notice certain things because I actually do the essays."

"It doesn’t disgust you."

"Should it?"

"Yes."

She snorts. “Bollocks and you know it."

"Is that why you’ve not told anyone about—?"

"Hush. We’re in public and I swear to god, if you—" They both freeze as they hear bits of a conversation and steps on the stairs.

 

"Holmes, Joan; fancy meeting you here." Hermione awkwardly waves at them.

"Hi,” greeted Joan politely. “We were just—leaving. Weren’t we Sherlock?" He glares at the older boy, who is smiling sweetly at Joan.

"It’s getting cold out. You probably shouldn’t stay out long," she says as way of saying goodbye, dragging Sherlock beside her.

 

"Insipid waste of air. I hate him."

She ignores his complaints, instead up toward the falling snow. "I’m going to beg the house elves for a mug of hot chocolate because I am cold."

"And here I thought it was because you wanted to avoid our conversation."

"That is a perk to hot chocolate."

"Joanie … I trust you," he mumbles, almost unperceivable with the wind blowing against them. She shivers in her coat, the thick lining protecting her from the harsh winds.

"I know, Sherlock. And I trust you."

He huffs, “Says the quarter Veela."

"Don’t make me punch you, Sherlock. I don’t throw accusations about _your_ bloodlines."

"It’s why Potter was being sickly sweet, isn’t it? He hates me. Using your powers for evil, how interesting."

"See, I was wondering about that. It would have affected you as well, if they were my charm—which they’re _not_. Seeing as I am not a Veela."

"I must be immune.”

"Lucky you," she answers uneasily. No one is immune to a Veela’s charm. “Especially since I’m not a Veela.”

"Indeed."

 

* * *

 

It's a comment during their weekly homework session that gets her to thinking about it all over again.

"I'll never need Divination for my career," she says with a huff, throwing the book across the table.

Sherlock looks up, eyeing the book, before snatching it away from the common room’s fireplace. "You're going to be a Healer, of course not. You'll need Potions more." He hands her a potions book, placing her almost burnt divination book in her pile of books.

"What about you?"

He hums noncommittally, quill scratching on parchment. Joan sighs, shifting further down the couch to prod at him with her foot. He tilts his head toward her, but refuses to look up. “What is it, Watson?”

"What do you want to be?"

"I would like to not be doing my homework."

"I mean, in the future."

"Alive is a nice, if naïve thought."

"I'm serious."

"As am I; I cannot do anything if I'm not alive."

She glares at him. "Sherlock ..."

"I do not see myself doing anything. At least, I see myself doing nothing long-term."

"Why not?"

"I just don't, Watson. Unlike you, I do not plan every single minute of my life, especially not the future. The future is not ours to know. Perhaps you would do well in divination. I'm going to bed." He rose, leaving his books, as he left the room.

"Sherlock!"

He pauses, taking a deep breath. "I am going to bed. Good night, Watson.”

 

She watches him leave, anger rolling from him in waves. She slams the heels of her hands into her eyes, something she picked up from Sherlock. Carrie walks in, rubbing her shoulder.

"Joanie, what are you doing?"

"I _was_ studying. Why?"

"Holmes shoved me on the way out. Are you fighting with your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend, Carrie."

"Well, what is he?"

She motions to the pile of books. "He's an idiot who left his books here."

 

* * *

 

 

 _I become a liability rather than a benefit_ , the professor had told her. Joan stroked the soft feathers on Hailstorm, sighing softly. It might explain Sherlock’s reluctance to name a job as his permanently. Or, she tries to reason to herself, he’s just being lazy and indecisive.

  

She shakes her head. No.

No, no, no, _no_.

She is _not_ , she repeats _not_ , thinking about this.

 

Her mother’s just sent a letter by owl that suggests a Howler might be in future if she refuses to go home for the holidays. And, she loves her family, she really does—but seeing her mother ask her about her classes, about her friends; she’s worried she might start a rumor about Sherlock’s dubious lifestyle.

 

 

She doesn’t have any _clear_ proof, she tries to convince herself. She’s not stupid, just up a nice river she calls The Nile.


End file.
